


Fade Away

by Bearfootscar



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Grey Wardens, Post Game, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad, Sexy Times, The Fade, Tragic Romance, Ultimate Sacrifice, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:31:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bearfootscar/pseuds/Bearfootscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Dragon Age: Origins, King Alistair experiences troubling reoccurring dreams about his lost love. Could this be the work of a demon or is someone reaching out to him from the Fade?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breath and Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Rating is really just "mature" until chapter 4 when things.....heat up.

 

_Sometimes the distinction between reds is tenuous. Red blood. Red hair. Red rage. It all bleeds together in the heat of battle around him. Something red flickers and flashes a few paces away. Red lips snarl and red flames jet and red blood splatters upon his shield. A growl flanks him, and he runs his red sword through its flesh. Heaving from the torrent of blows, red spots swim in his peripheral vision, cause him to stagger, he jabs his sword into red slippery soil to steady himself. Gasping, he looks up to the blackened tower over the flaming city walls to see a bob of red hair flit just out of sight. He moves to follow, to catch the hair, the robes, but suddenly the ground is so soggy with red that his footing falters and he goes down to one knee. Red Hair is gone. He lets his ragged body flag onto the red earth. His face wet with bloodied mud, armor creaking, fingers unfurl from the hilt and futilely reach outward where the robes went. The tips touch a passing shadow as something huge looms overhead, something that sets his blood both to boil and quaking. He cranes his neck upward to see a tip of scaly red float behind a smoking building. The shadow now passed, his eyes rest upon his fingers still outstretched, still slathered in red._

His fingers massage his temples as he wakens. He sucks in a sudden breath and holds out his hands half expecting to find them still coated in blood. Sitting up, Alistair looks over his red quilt and breathes out a heavy sigh. “Another dream.” He runs his hands roughly over his face and down his neck as he breathes out, “Maker’s breath.” Throwing the covers aside, he pads to the window and gazes up at the cool Ferelden night sky. The Denerim rooftops are calm, the stars bright, the comforting smell of dog abounds, but his pulse is still quick. These last few nights have found him to be a frequent visitor to this exact spot, but tonight, as he rests his forehead against his arm propped against the window frame, he feels a faint and familiar touch upon his shoulder.

Sleep would similarly elude him when he once travelled as a Grey Warden. He could attribute his insomnia to Darkspawn nightmares, but really, he never was very good at sleep when his mind would rather worry. And there was much to worry about in those days: the Blight, the betrayal at Ostagar, and all the things he could do to Loghain for ruining his aspirations of being a simple forgotten royal bastard. He would slip from camp just out of the fire's light and gaze up at the stars when the worry set his head throbbing. Some nights, he thought facing the Horde was preferable to facing his own thoughts. And when the stars started to feel too far away, the night too cold, the future too stark, she would silently slip behind him. She never spoke, only rested her head upon his shoulder, wrapped her arms around his waist, and just breathed onto his skin until he came back to himself. "How did you get so good at sneaking?" he asked her once. "The Templars inadvertently taught me," she whispered onto his back. He would let out a sigh of resignation and she would pull him back to the light of the camp where they would peter out the remainder of the night warming each other by the fire.

“I’m crazy,” he announces to the empty room, but the feel of breath rippling across his skin does not evaporate. Rather than retreat back to the bed, he lingers with eyes skyward. Just as he starts to feel the warmth of fire tinging his finger tips, the swirling eddy passes. Abruptly back to reality, he pulls on his pants and a shirt before swinging open his chamber door. “Well, nothing like a ridiculously early start to the day, I suppose.”

***  
Dreadfully boring official correspondence lay in heaps about his desk as Alistair rests his chin upon his fist. His gaze long, his breath shallow until a particularly exasperated sigh topples one of the taller piles of papers off the desk. He jumps to catch them before they cascade about the floor, but only succeeds in flailing about wildly and muttering, “oh sod it!” The sound of his old friend’s favorite invective softens his annoyance though, and despite himself the corners of his lips life then release a sigh. He would gladly put up with the smell of dwarf vomit for a good friend right now. This dream is getting the better of me. I think its safe to say that it’s not just going away. This inner admission allows him to steel himself a bit, and he furrows his brow and scowls.

“I know that face,” she had announced one day on the road to Redcliffe. “You’re worrying a bone.” She was right. He had been thinking about how to confess his lineage to them, well, really to her. He hadn’t been able to shake the nagging feeling that he had been being dishonest, and suddenly he found himself saying, “Look, can we talk for a moment? I need to tell you something I, uh, should have probably told you earlier...” But his dread had been unnecessary, as she accepted the news with curiosity rather than the consternation he'd imagined. Stop, his inner voice told him. This is dangerous thinking... But the thought of his days fighting the Blight reminds him of what seperates him from any other royal-bastard-turned-Templar-turned-surviving-Grey-Warden, so he collects himself from behind his paperwork swamped desk and opens the door.

"Send for the court mage, please." Closing the door, he muffles into his hands, "Makers breath! How do I explain this?" He decides to mull this over as he sweeps up the shamble of papers from the floor. His thoughts wander back to the wee hours of the morning when he tangibly felt breath and touch where no woman stood. Even now, crouched on the floor in a heap of kingdom business, he recalls with vivid clarity just how very real it felt as the tiny hairs on his back swayed to the rhythm of familiar breath.

"Alistair, really are you hiding under the desk from me? I thought your antics of harassing the mages was left at Ostagar?" The sudden voice made him jerk his head up, earning him a rather large lump on his head.

"Ow!" He rubs his head. How ridiculous he must have looked, the King of Ferelden, quietly crouching under his desk in a messy heap of papers. _Good thing she can't read my mind_ , he thinks as he feels his cheeks start to flush at the thought of his old friend knowing just how tantalizing his under the desk thoughts were. _Wait, can mages do that?_

"I assume you've summoned me here for more than treating that lump, then?" She folds her arms across her chest and shakes her head with a chuckle.

"Wynne! I...er...well, yes, it's fine, thank you," he stammers. All that daydreaming has left him with no time to decide how he should go about this potentially awkward conversation.

"Well, let me just rest these old bones while you collect yourself," she says as she eases herself down on one of the chairs in the room. This seems to fluster Alistair even more as he paces about the room, starts to speak, hesitates, then paces some more until he plants himself in the chair next to hers.

"Here's the thing...I'm having a...well, I suppose it's what you'd call a dream..." He finally begins then looks into her waiting eyes, holding his breath, measuring her reaction. A somber nod tells him she's not yet ready to launch into thunderous laughter, so he continues. "A reoccurring dream, well, sort of... It's very...intense and well, I've not been sleeping much. Perhaps I'm fooling myself, but I..." His voice trails off as he watches Wynne smooth her mossy green robes over her knee.

"Alistair, you and I both know that dreams are not trifling things. They are your connection to the Fade, and while you're no mage, you have consciously been there. There are very few documented incidents of non mages being brought into the Fade, but of those I've read, it seems that the person has a stronger connection to that realm. So, no, I'm not going to laugh at you."

He breathes out heavily and nods. "I dreamt last night of the Archdemon."

"And?"

"And...of her, I think," There. He'd said it out loud. Now it was true. But he wasn't sure she'd heard his whisper until he saw the look of concern on her face.

"Were you..." She measures her next words carefully, "tempted to find her or follow her somewhere?"

His eyes twitch a bit as he brings his hands to his face, but from between tight fingers, "...yes."

"You were right to tell me, Alistair. This could be serious."

"Serious?" He'd hoped Wynne would console him, tell him it was nothing to worry himself with, that it would pass with time...but serious?

"Well, as I said, when the Sloth demon drew you and I into the fade, it weakened the Veil. I thought that effect was positional, but perhaps it's more...personal."

He furrows his brow, "personal? As in affecting only me?"

"There is some speculation that the Veil is torn at Kinloch Hold because of Uldred's blood magic, but some at the tower believe that tears in the Veil can occur not at a place, but within, or around a person. A person like you. I had not thought such a thing was possible, but if it is, you could be a tempting target for a demon trying to exploit this weakness."

"Demon!" He jumps up and paces to his desk. Shaking his head vigorously, he places his hands on his desk, letting his head hang low. "You don't really.... I mean, I suppose it possible but....what do I do?"

"I don't know. There is much we don't understand about the Fade and its inhabitants. But I think this merits a trip to the Lake Calenhad." She smooths her robes again and lets Alistair contemplate her words. Moments pass without any movement, and she begins to wonder if perhaps she should have softened her reaction a bit. Mages are trained to stave off the attempts of demons, but anyone else would most likely...

"Alright then," he finally breathes. "Arrange for a small group. We'll travel on foot so as not to arouse any suspicion. Tell Gregoir were coming for a diplomatic visit. Tell Irving the gist, but let's explain the details in person. We're leaving tomorrow." He did not move, but the authority in his voice made Wynne smile. _He's learning how to be a king_.


	2. Echoes and Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Familiar places can be comforting, but for Alistair, they stir up memories he's not yet ready to face.

_The path through the trees seems to lead his feet more than his head does. The trail is gnarled with exposed roots and jagged stones, so he picks his way slowly after his quarry. He’s chasing something, but the green tinged fog hangs on the craggy branches like algae overgrown in a warm pool and drags downs his face and neck as he tries to slip past. He stops and peers over his shoulder: a noise -- a snap -- from behind. He wonders if he is not the hunter, but the quarry. Panic digs into his gut and in the next moment, he finds himself heaving ragged wet breaths as branches tear into his clothes, his hair, and his flesh. The trees, fog, and trail all mingle into a slimy green blur as his feet propel him unsteadily over the uneven terrain. But panic makes him clumsy, and it seems like only a few steps before his feet fail him. First, his knee goes down and tears along the rocky path, upsetting his balance just enough to send him toppling over the edge into the brambles. The forest itself seems to crave his blood as the thorns pull at him, their torment only over when he thumps so hard that the world stops spinning and he’s relieved with blissful darkness._

_But his warrior instincts revive him as he feels his hand empty of his hilt, and he scrambles to pull himself up. His feet again fail him, so he shimmies his back against the nearest tree. Pushing aside his pain, he tries to see past the liquid in his eyes and through the green fog, but his head still will not cooperate. He does not sense imminent danger, so he looks down at his chest to see his tunic shredded and green ooze seeping from his wounds. Green? A shaky finger touches the seepage and rubs it between his finger and thumb. It’s sticky like blood, but cool to his touch. He’s sustained enough injuries to know the touch and smell of his own blood, and this is not it. Furrowing his brow, he inspects his surroundings again, trying to detect some sort of trickery or illusion. This time, he notices the warped branches lead up into a pale green sky. A little ways away, he sees a fishing boat suspended mid air above a rocky dried up brook. He shakes his head and presses his palms into his eyes. When he releases them, he notices the thick fog diffuses his surroundings making everything hazy and eerie._

_He pushes himself up the tree and to his feet. He’s lost the trail, but his feet again begin to guide him. Futilely, he scans the ground for his sword. This may be some sort of deception, but he’s still weak and vulnerable. Then, the worst that could happen happens: Darkspawn. He feels them closing in upon him, too far into the fog to discern, but he senses their taint looming. He whips his head around searching for his sword or cover, but even as he thinks of hiding, he knows they are drawn to his taint and their relentless searching will buy him only a few moments of time. He turns and runs back towards the brambly hill he come down, but instead he finds huge trunks descending their branches upon him, twisting about his wrists and ankles. They pull him off his feet and drag him backwards. His fingers claw and grasp at every passing rock and root, but they pull away from him as though to mock him as he is pulled to his doom. He releases his jaw and calls out loudly, but his voice does not come forth. He hears only the cracking of the branches and the insidious grunts and laughter of the Darkspawn behind him._

_He was just finding peace in his end when a gust of wind fills his ears. He begins to open his eyes but an explosive crackle and boom slams them shut again. A cacophony he can only liken to a massive storm erupts behind him, and his instincts take over again. Shaking his wrists and legs free of the entanglement of branches as they shrink back, he scuttles over the ground and away from the noise of howling wind and howling Darkspawn. His fingers claw once again at stone and root through the haze of the swirling green fog and the tangle of trunks and branches, but this time, he makes headway, forces his feet under him, and crashes through the twisted woods._

Exhausted, he finally collapses amongst an outcropping of craggy stones at the base of a hill. His ears, when they clear of the pounding of his own heart, expect to hear the maniacal calls of the hurlocks and genlocks at his heels, but instead, they are greeted with just the susurration of gentle wind. He can sense them no longer. Coughing and wheezing from the exertion of terror and escape, he can still make out the not too distant sound of footsteps. They are earnestly moving towards him, no doubt following the sounds of his suffering, but his flagging body can no longer flee. He tries to prop himself up on his elbow to see what or who approaches, but this final effort only causes his world to swirl and eddy. Eyes blind, but his body feels hands upon him, gently turning him over to his back and into an awaiting lap. A hand cups his head and braces his neck against an inviting shoulder and another rubs up his elbow to his shoulder where it presses him tightly. “Shhhhhhhh,” he hears more in his chest than his ears. This embrace is comforting, familiar, yet he still tilts his chin and pulls open his eyes to see his savior. Blurrily filled with pain and blood, he can make out only a human shape with jade eyes gazing upon him with worry. A blue aura surrounds the person and expands outwards until the familiar tinge of healing magic allows him to finally succumb to rest.

It is very disorienting to wake from an intense dream into a time out of place. A roadside camp with fire and bedrolls seems so very distant from here, yet Alistair wakes to its familiar wet grass and embers-that-still-smoulder smoke filling his nose. While he typically would hoist himself off the hard ground immediately, his dream holds him there for a few moments. These dreams of Darkspawn were certainly not unusual for him, nor even the threat of his death at their gruesome hands, but this dream was certainly different. If he lay still and hold his breath, he can still feel an arm draped around his shoulders and something pressing against his chest reassuring him. The cool ground and the warm lingering sensation are almost too comforting to leave, but he spies Wynne stirring on the other side of the remnants of the fire. He convinces himself to rise and the lingering pressure of the arm atop him dissipates. Now the ground is too hard and cold to lie upon any more, so he pushes himself up and tries to remember the evenings dreams. Every morning for the last two days of travel, Wynne has pressed him to recall as many details of his dreams as possible, so he’s gotten into the habit of trying to part the haze before her questioning begins. “I don’t remember” is never a suitable answer for the woman, so he’s been trying to recall the dreams before they completely disperse.

Resting his forehead in his hands, he massages his head back into compliance. _Let’s see...the forest and trees...Darkspawn of course...green fog...almost dying...the usual fare._ And then the unmistakable look of green eyes looking down at him. Green eyes were not so very rare in Ferelden, but they did seem familiar somehow.

“What did your evening bring you?” Wynne’s probing voice asks.

“The woods. Darkspawn. Imminent doom. The usual.”

“And? What else?” See, never enough for that woman.

“The trees were...different. There was green mist and changing trails. The strangest fishing boat caught in a tree...or, was it...no, it wasn’t in the tree, but above it somehow...”

“Things in the Fade are a shallow mockery of what they are here. The spirits and demons shape it to their warped perception of our world.”

“Yes, and somehow, I recall thinking that...” he half-heartedly begins rolling his blanket up so as to avoid Wynne’s piercing eyes. “...that this was a dream perhaps.”

  
“Really now? Well, this is encouraging news.” Alistair looks down at his shoddily rolled blanket, shakes it open and begins again. “When mages dream, we enter the Fade just as anyone else, but we can be consciously aware that we are there. Some very powerful and practiced mages can even manipulate the Fade as the spirits do.”

“They can change the Fade then?”

“Well, in small ways anyhow. That realm is not static, but malleable to skilled minds.”

“So, if I’m in the Fade, could I...change it?”

“You would first have to learn how to consciously recognize that you are in the Fade. It is certainly unheard of for one without magical talents, but your circumstance does seem...unique.”

He thinks about this a moment. “Well, that would certainly be useful. All those Darkspawn...just ZAP!” his boyishness returns for just a moment and Wynne can see him visualizing dreams of Darkspawn decimation. But he sobers after a moment. “Can you? I mean change it? While you’re dreaming?”

“Yes, but...”

“Then you can tell me!” Alistair interrupts her, abandons the thrice shoddily rolled blanket on the ground and jumps to his feet. “You must remember how...” His excitement gets the better of him and he finds his hands on Wynne’s shoulders, fingers digging in perhaps a bit too desperately.

“I do remember a little,” she turns from him, “but to explain it to someone unfamiliar with magic would be very difficult.”

“I’m not wholly unfamiliar with it. My Templar training...” She hesitates to meet his eyes. They would be all pleading like a mabari slobbering for a half-eaten cake. But maybe....

“Perhaps that might suffice....” she finally murmurs then sighs. She turns to meet his gaze. “Well, simply put, once I could recognize that I was in the Fade, I could draw out the magic within myself and fold the fabric of that realm’s reality.” She did not think he could understand, that this explanation would deter further thinking along this line, but instead, he nods in recognition.

“Yes, that is not unlike dampening magics. The Knight-Captain compared it to shutting a door and latching it tight....If I practiced...do you think I could confront this demon myself then? Could the dreams end?” She didn’t know why he bothered to ask her the question as the hand rubbing his scruffy chin reveals that he has already decided.

“That, my dear, is why we are going to the Circle. Irving is far more knowledgeable than I in these matters. Perhaps he will see a way to end this.”

“When we helped Connor and Eamon, it was said that only a mage could enter the Fade in the ritual to confront the demon. That’s why she...” He had not yet allowed himself to speak about her, and Wynne’s widening eyes at the mention of her made him catch his tongue. He’d only just recently allowed himself to even think of her...no, speaking about it was out of the question, so he releases himself to his knees again and again attempts to roll his blanket. Wynne patiently examines him for a few awkward moments, but finally excuses herself to pack her own bedding.

As soon as she is no longer scrutinizing him, Alistair releases his breath in a sigh. Not sure he can hold it together any longer, he abruptly rises and retreats to the edge of the trees near their camp. He rounds a large trunk and throws himself back against it gnarly bark and slowly sinks down until he’s made himself as small as possible at its roots. Sun is starting to break between the leaves casting dusty rays from above. He lifts his chin to see hints of blue between the waving branches. She would relish this moment. Once, she stopped the entire party short mid-march to the Brecilian forest to admire this moment. She reached out to touch the swirling sun drenched forest dust to extend a moment of rare beauty. He had chuckled despite himself, leaned against a trunk, and smiled as she spread her arms to catch the dust as though it were snow falling around them and she were a child relishing the first flakes of winter. She broke the silence with an earnest laugh that enticed Leliana to join in girlish laughter while Morrigan scoffed and murmured about “idle fancies”. He watched them swirl and laugh and dance in the dust until she caught his gaze and Leliana would recognize that look between them then conveniently disappear. She reached out her hand so innocently that he just had to take it. She pulled him in close and his arms found their way around her while the forest dust cascaded around them. She found magic in these moments -- infectious magic that just could not be ignored.

And when he opens his eyes, the forest dust is drawn to the water on his cheeks so that when he wipes them away, his fingers leave streaks across his face like momentarily tangible scars.

 


	3. Blood and Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery of his vivid dreams is starting to take a toll on Alistair as he tries to sort out memory, dream, and reality.

Chapter 3: Blood and Wind

At least while they are moving, Alistair can distract himself from thoughts of the past. He can make small chit chat with the handful of guards that his sceneshal insisted they take along. They could while away a few hours sharing tales of training, comparing blades, or gossiping a bit about Denerim. Wynne too would sometimes engage in some idle chatter or a bit of light hearted teasing about how his royal lifestyle has left him rusty with a blade. Fortunately, they were only into their second day out of the city when some bandits insisted upon being slain, and Alistair was able to show her that his early morning training sessions have kept him anything but rusty. Their small group allowed for some meaningless banter to fill the air while they marched, but the stillness of the gloaming sadly gives him no reprieve from his thoughts.

He can tell that Wynne wants to talk. Really talk. She tries to catch his eye when the conversation dims and he moves away from the group after their meal is eaten and cleared. But he avoids her. Then he feels guilty. It's been a year already...I should talk to her about it. I should be ready. No, I should be over it by now. Normal people would be fine...he tries to tell himself, but when the final battle or its aftermath is broached, his tongue fills the back of his throat and pressure closes his windpipe so that he can barely wheeze let alone speak. Even if he could form words, his mind just will not cooperate. Filled with racing images, raging sounds, niggling voices criticizing his everything--no, these things cannot yet be communicated. I can't make sense of it myself, how could I ever explain...

And so he tries to calm the chaos of his thoughts in the only way he's been able to for the last year: with business. And right now, the business at hand is probing Wynne about the Fade. So, he paces about a bit to build up his resolve.

"What happens when a Mage dies?" The words now formed, Alistair crouches next to Wynne and waits patiently for her to place a bookmark in her small tome.

"You know the Chant as well as I." She meets his gaze, "is this a pop quiz to make sure I'm not growing senile?"

"No...well, not exactly, it's just that the Chantry glosses over the bit about traveling through the Fade and skips right to 'the righteous join the Maker' part. But what about mages who can consciously navigate the Fade? Wouldn't it be different for them?"

"Perhaps. I'll let you know once I've finally shuffled off to meet Him."

"Riiiight...very helpful...forget I asked..." He starts to rise, but she puts a hand on his arm and seriousness returns to her voice.

"Alistair, I know you want it to really be her..." She can feel his muscles tense under her touch. She knows this is dangerous territory, so she tries to meet his eyes, "and perhaps it seems very familiar, very recognizable..." His eyes cast sideways towards the fire, but she has already begun and the words keep coming, "but that's how demons work..."

He pulls away from her grasp and finishes climbing to his feet. "Right. The fire is starting to wane. I best tend to it or we'll shiver all night."

Wynne sighs loudly as he makes his way into the shrubs at the edges of their camp and out of sight. She reopens her book and pretends to read for a bit until she can no longer hear his footsteps crunching through the undergrowth.

Once away from the camp enough that he feels sufficiently alone, Alistair stops clomping thorough the undergrowth near a wisened old oak. He turns on his heel, begins back towards camp, stops short again and pushes the full weight of his body and heart through his fist into the old tree.

"I'm an idiot!" He growls, then gives the tree two more jabs before smashing his forehead against the tree's thick bark. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot! "What am I thinking!?" He begs the tree, and since his knuckles and forehead are not yet bleeding, he beats the unanswering tree until he is rewarded with a trickle of thick liquid down his nose. He blinks in surprise half expecting the oozing to be green as it was in his dream. Frustration spent enough for now, he drops to his hands and knees and watches his blood drip onto the leaves until it congeals and stops. The sight of his own blood has always helped to ground him, to make the swirling mind noise wane enough for a few moments of peace, and to remind him that he is human. Perhaps this is why he was such a promising Templar recruit...

"Am I fooling myself?" he asks the bloodied leaves. His gaze follows up the masive trunk of the pummeled oak until his neck cranes. The sky is darkening between the bare branches as his words echo in his mind. He hadn't intended to speak those words, the words he asked her when he bared his heart, but there they are--hanging in the pregnant air waiting for him to make sense of them.

The few remaining leaves on the branches above begin to rustle as a light wind begins to blow. The words float away with the current making Alistair shiver. Mechanically, he gathers some fallen wood as he follows the words through the trees like he once trailed her as she floated through the wood in wonderment of its beauties. "I'll help you," she would declare as he set out for firewood, but he was really the only one who ever gathered any. But he didn't mind. Her eyes would grow wide with each new discovery: a toadstool the size of a dinner plate, an ant hill with a line of marching foragers returning with their prize, deer prints freshly imprinted in a spot of mud...the wonderment never ceased. And he would follow behind her as she touched and squatted to squint at everything. "Never saw this before," she would murmur, "only pictures in Inid's botany book" or "I've read about these. They're much smaller than I imagined!" They would loop around camp like that until his arms were full and she would reluctantly return to camp.

"They would've let me study outside of the tower eventually, you know, after I passed my Harrowing," she admitted as he built up the wood in the fire ring. Even from across the camp, he heard Morrigan harrumph at the notion, saw her turn away in disgust, which suited him just fine. He never understood why she spent so much time asking the witch about old magics, but he was content enough to busy himself patching his armor just out of ear shot when the two of them got going. He would finish the wood pile and she would use her magic to ignite them into a powerful fire. The first time she'd done it, he jumped backwards and scolded, "I could have done that without magic!"

"Why would you want to do that when you have a perfectly good Mage at your disposal?" She'd shake her head and shrug her shoulders then say in a surprisingly good impersonation of the Revered Mother, "Magic is intended to serve man, roast Darkspawn, and making camping more palatable to weary travellers." And he had to laugh in spite of himself. It took a few nights, but he did have to admit that it was helpful, and eventually, it was just part of the routine.

So tonight, he follows the words am I fooling myself? as they flit through the woods and echo in his mind. Finding himself back at camp, the old routine continues as he piles up the wood. His arms depleted, the stack expertly made, he stares at the fire pit numbly until he feels the wide eyes of his companions upon him. The dried blood on this face starts to itch, but instead of rubbing it away, he picks himself up and retreats to his tent leaving the unlit fire and his bewildered party outside.

***  
It's cold enough that the water freezes on his cheek before it can drip off his chin. There is a barely smouldering fire and he's trying futilely to warm his hands near it. Wind burns his ears and other than the occasional distant howl, it's silent and Alistair is alone. Bedrolls and tents arrange themselves about the camp as once they did, but their emptiness fills him with dread and sets his hackles on edge. Enormous, twisted mountains in the near distance send their winds up his sleeves and down his back making him shiver and huddle to himself tightly. Cold. Alone. Despair is emptying his last reserves.

"I....thought it w-w-would b-b-be the D-d-darkspawn that finally got t-t-to me," he murmurs through chattering teeth to the wind. It tries to silence him with it's howling, and he lets it win. The ground near the fire looks oddly comforting, and he feels himself sinking down to meet its harsh embrace. Darkness creeps in on his peripheral vision, but a flare of light sends it shrieking back to the corners of the empty camp. Instinctively, his body leans inward before his brain even comprehends that his skin feels heat again. He is on his knees rubbing his hands together near a roaring fire before his mind wakens enough to wonder how this could be.

Blearily, he squints through the tall orange flames at a figure sitting opposite of him.

"Wha....who...?"

"You weren't alone then," the figure speaks. The voice familiar, Alistair leans to and fro to try and catch a better glimpse around the fire. He can tell the figure is sitting cross legged now, with something in its lap.

"Do I know..."

"You're not alone now either." Her voice. He recognizes it now despite the howling wind. That means....it's...her! With that realization, he becomes acutely aware that he must be in the Fade. He looks around and can't believe he didn't recognize the twisted version of reality around him sooner. He thinks she might be speaking, but the damnable wind drowns her out. Folding, he thinks, shutting it tight, he remembers. It takes all his concentration, but he visualizes the wind and stuffing it into a padded box. The wind squirms and struggles, but he wrestles it inside and clamps it shut. Opening his eyes, the air is astonishingly still.

"I did it!"

And he can't help but to fist pump the air in victory. In fact, he's so proud of this breakthrough that he forgets there is a mysterious figure on the other side of the fire until her chuckling becomes audible over the crackling of the fire. The sound sobers him, and he tries again to recognize her shape through the flames.

"Are you...real?" The question escapes his lips. He hears a sharp intake of breath.

She lets the fire and the lack of wind fill the air of the Fade as her answer.

"A demon..." He begins, but she interrupts him.

"I did help you know. With the fire back then. You left that part out of your daydream earlier."

"No. You didn't," he hears himself chuckle in mock defense. "You were too busy picking up frogs and dipping your toes in snow melt to..."

"You never seemed to mind the company!"

Alistair starts a witty rebuke, but suddenly wonders, wait...how does she know what I was thinking about earlier... I wasn't even dreaming...was she....it...following me...some how? Outside of the fade? Outside of my dreams? And this realization silences his banter. His body warmed enough to allow movement, he pushes himself off the cold ground. He has to see for himself.

He edges around the fire slowly, hand instinctively hovering over where his pommel should be, eyes locked on the figure looking for even the slightest hint of movement that would send him into fight mode. But the figure remains still. As he nears, his vision becomes clearer and he notices a large square object on the ground next to the figure. A bit closer and....yes...it's a padded box with a large clamp on the front...he shakes his head in disbelief as he recognizes his Fade-wind-container actually before him. How can this be?

He inches a bit further around the fire and can finally make out the object in her lap...a small book with a green leather binding and gold filigree on the side. He recognizes it immediately and the shock makes his gaze meet hers as he inhales sharply.

"Is that..." But he doesn't need to finish the sentence before she nods. Her jade green eyes look so real...so familiar...even the honey flecks inside her irises glint off the Fade fire in such an intimately recognizable way...that he has to blink twice and rub his eyes to try and shake off the feeling. But instead of clearing his vision, the gestures instead makes his vision swim and eddy so that the entire Fade realm swirls away from him.

And he consciously wakes back in his bedroll where he lay fully clothed, face buried in his rolled up blanket.

"Ugh..." he moans. The swirling still in his stomach, he tries to swallow hard before his dinner makes an unwelcome reappearance. His hands instinctively come to his face, but they brush against something firm under the blanket. He pulls out a small green book. He blinks at the green leather. He makes out the gold filigree on the binding...Amell. Her journal. He's carried it since she's been gone, but never had the strength of mind to do more than hold the slim volume. But something makes his hand flip open the pages . The binding releases easily to the centerfold where a dried pressed rose stares back at him.

 

 


	4. A Rose & Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even with Wynne's insistence that he is dreaming of a demon, Alistair tries to understand the entity that is with him in the Fade every time he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the aforementioned "heating up" happens.

Alistair doesn't know how long he has been staring at the dried rose in the journal, but the sun is starting to make the heat in his tent unbearable. Is it a sign? How could a demon know? It must be her...could it be her? What if it is her? Only when the sweat starts to roll down his forehead does he think to snap the book shut to protect the pages from getting wet. And with the rose out of sight, the sounds of the camp beyond the canvas of his tent come into focus: two guards whispering, another pulling stakes from the ground, nearly falling backward from the effort, laughing to himself, someone trying to condense their belongings into one backpack...all the sounds of breaking camp. They have been waiting for him to emerge. Eventually, Wynne will grow impatient, or worried perhaps, and come looking for him. And she will have questions.

Like on cue, he can make out soft footsteps moving towards his tent. They stop just a few feet away, and he hears Wynne clear her throat. 

“Alistair?” her voice sounds unusually tenuous. He wants to answer her, tell her he will be right out, but words do not come.

“Alistair, are you, er...still sleeping?” she tries again, a bit louder this time. But again, his body will not obey his commands. She must know that he’s not still asleep, even without his recent onset of nightmares, he always has been an early riser. “Well, I’m coming in,” she finally announces and half a moment later, her hands are parting the canvas letting a waft of cool air enter the sweltering tent as she deftly crouches and eases herself inside. 

What a sight I must be, he realizes as he notices she is wearing the same expression as when tending to particularly nasty wounds. She kneels next to him at his shoulder, and he meets her gaze. “Oh, Alistair....” she whispers as a hand comes to his face. Her thumb rubs away a tear from his cheek. He hadn’t even realized that some of the water falling was not sweat. “What happened?” He answers her by letting his eyes fall upon the green book in his hands. She follows his gaze, and her sharp intake of breath tells him that she too instantly recognizes it.

They share a few moments of anguished silence before she reaches out to take the book from his hands, but the threat of losing this clue forces his muscles into action and he shoves it protectively under his arm and out of her reach. Released from his paralysis, Alistair rolls to his side and lets a hot breath escape, “I er...” He tries to think of a witty excuse that will make her chuckle or roll her eyes or something, anything so that she will stop her from looking at him with such pity, but nothing comes.

“I know you wish it to be so, but Alistair, I’m telling you it cannot be. This demon is plaguing you, using your own memories against you. To trick you. To whittle away at your will so that you will relent to it. Thank the Maker we are so close to the Circle. This has to end!” 

And it all makes perfect sense. It’s logical really, and he finds himself nodding at her words, somehow agreeing with her prescription. “You can do this, Alistair. You can resist. We can do the ritual tomorrow if we make haste.” With that, Wynne takes his hand and pulls him out of the tent, into the air of the morning. The coolness of the breeze clears his head.

“Yes, that would be...good....” he utters. He can feel the weight of the guards’ eyes upon him, sizing up their King who suffered an apparent psychotic episode last night, but Wynne’s unwavering stare shames them into breaking their gaze and they go about their usual business. 

The routine of breaking camp is comforting to Alistair and he can busy himself with packing his things to avoid uncomfortable conversation. He hesitates only for a moment when he again holds the green journal, but he stuffs it into its rightful place in his backpack. 

***

The air is warm for a Fereldan spring evening and Alistair is cozy in his bedroll. The flap of his tent flutters slightly as a breeze flutters through the tent. Between flaps, he can just make out a hazy moon cresting the treetops. It has a soft, green aura about it tonight despite the clear sky, and the peace of this quiet warm moment makes him squeeze his arms a little tighter around....around....someone? And although he doesn't remember falling asleep with another person in his tent, he brings his face to the person’s neck. Nestling his nose behind a familiar ear, he inhales deeply. Myrrh and honey. He finds his hand running down the length of an arm, to an elbow, onto a waist and over the mound of a hip where it knowingly rests . He knows the curvature of this body, has tread its paths times enough before to be able to find its nooks blindly. 

The tinge of moonlight is enough to make out only the barest of shapes, but he studies her outline...she stirs, pressing her shoulder into his bare chest she turns toward him. She releases a sigh, a familiar sigh he has heard dozens of times as she used to wake in his embrace, and all these things are right, every detail fitting perfectly with his somatic memory so that his chest feels full and tight. His hand joins her cheek and he gently turns her head so his lips can find hers in the dark. 

Met with the familiar taste and touch of her lips, he gives himself fully to her eagerness. She turns to face him completely and both her hands cup his face while her lips tour his face, gently kissing his forehead, both eyes, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks and chin before finding again his waiting lips. Her tour complete, she pulls away slightly, and despite the dark, Alistair opens his eyes and feels her gaze meet his. Her eyes send electricity coursing through his body, where it tingles across his flesh. 

A hot breath escapes her lips, and knowing that they have parted, he can resist no longer. In one motion, he raises himself to one elbow and rushes his lips to hers. To his great pleasure, he finds them still parted slightly so his tongue can find its way to hers. Her arms fold around him and her hands grasp at his back. His tongue probes further and she curls her fingernails into his skin making him tremble with anticipation. 

No longer content with just her mouth, Alistair moves to her neck, hungrily kissing and nibbling his way down to her collar. Her mouth now free, she lets out a low moan that quickens his pulse. He wants his lips all over her body, so he finds the hem of her nightshirt and her hands join him in pulling it over her head. Her bare skin revealed, he picks up where he left off at her collarbone and starts kissing his way down her chest. His fingers trace the outline of her body up her side where she trembles and giggles at his caress. They continue their journey up her arm and all the way to her hand where they entwine with hers. 

His mouth lingers upon reaching her nipples where he lets his bottom lip just barely rub. She arches her back and his hand comes down to fill the space there before he circles his tongue just once around her awaiting breast. She shudders, but his journey must not be detoured, so he continues to kiss down her chest to her stomach where her muscles are already quivering.

Arriving at her hips, he nibbles at her curves causing her to inhale sharply. His hot breath on her skin always set her to shiver, so he breathes out heavily and he is rewarded with a low groan. Reaching downward, he runs his hand up the inside of her leg, letting his thumb just graze her innermost thigh where his lips have landed. 

As he kisses near the joining of her thighs, her hands rub over his shoulders and down his chest where she ruffles his chest hair playfully. They continue down his stomach and find his trouser cinch. After a few unsuccessful tugs, she pushes him onto his back where she can have a better go at the knot. With one deft pull, the knot is released and he happily helps her remove the offending clothing. 

The wind ruffles the tent flap behind her so that the moonlight is able to shine in and silhouette her in a soft glow. 

“Maker’s breath but you’re beautiful,” he mutters as she swings one leg over him. His hands reach out to trace her curves against the moon’s glow and she lowers herself so their bare chests can touch. She slides her hands under his shoulders and bends her head to meet his lips. Every inch of his body connecting with hers, his hands move down her back and over the curves of her flank. His fingers press into her thighs as her tongue parts his lips. Their breathing so heavy now that their panting echoes off the canvas of the tent. 

He can feel the her heat so close to his, and as she moves to suckle at his neck, her hairs brush ever so slightly over his aching erection. Anticipation no longer able to be caged, he thrusts his hips upward towards her warmth. She angles her hips to meet him and slowly lowers herself over him. Enveloped within her, he groans loudly as she slowly works her way up and down. 

He lets her continue in this way, slowly, methodically allowing him further and further within, until he can no longer wait. He withdraws long enough to roll her to her back and kneel before her then enters her again. This time, without the patience for slow methodical love making, he thrusts quickly and deeply until her moans deepen and her fingernails scratch down his back. He feels her hips quivering, her breath ragged, and then the tent canvas starts to swirl as he releases into her. Panting and sweating, he falls upon her and rests his cheek against hers.

Her body still shuddering, he presses himself against her, pulling her towards him. “I’m not letting you go...not again,” he whispers into her neck. 

“I am so okay with that,” she chuckles as she traces her finger up his arm.

The voice, it’s also right, but for some reason, it makes him furrow his brow. He looks again at the tent flap fluttering in the breeze and the green glow around the moon gives him pause. He raises himself up and pushes aside the flap to better see beyond the canvas tent. Outside, he immediately recognizes the green twisted shape of Fade trees.

“You....” he whispers huskily, “ are you....real?” He turns from the open flap, still allowing some moon light to stream in. She has propped herself up onto one elbow, but her face is turned downward. Her hair, barely distinguishable as red in the faint light, falls over her face and she sighs. 

“As real as I can be, I suppose,” she murmurs from behind her hair. He reaches out with one hand and gently pulls back the hair from her face revealing a wet trail down her cheek.

“Are you...really you?” He studies her face in the dim light. Every detail perfect to his memory, even the tiny trace of a scar on her chin. He remembers the tale of when she was only five years old; the Templars had found her hiding in her parents cupboard. This scar was the only sign of her resistance, where a gauntleted hand struck a little girl as she tried to worm her way free from capture.

“What do you want me to do, Alistair?” Upon saying his name, she suddenly stares into his eyes. Intense jade eyes that pierce through him. He’d never met their match. “Haven’t I already proved myself to you?”

“But, you’re....dead,” the intensity of her gaze and the weight of the word pulls his eyes downward. It is the first time he’s said the words aloud. Dead.

“You didn’t seem to think so a few minutes ago.” Always with the sarcasm, but despite himself, it does make him smile, just a little.

“It felt so real...” he confesses and even the thought of their tryst makes his pulse start to quicken again.

“It was real. We’re in the Fade, but this is not just your imagination. I am here. You are here. We are really together.”

Together. What he’s been aching over for the last year. And here she is. Here. With him. He let the realization sit in the air between them silently.

“I’ve missed you, you know,” he says, meeting her gaze once more. Her expression softens, but her gaze is still intense. It always was. Those eyes always felt like piercing, even the first time they met in Ostagar. How relieved he was when they opened again after the Joining. Another sister, he had thought, and a cute one to boot. 

“I’ve thought about you,” he continues. “Everyday. I’ve wanted....well...wanted this,” he gestures around the tent then to the two of them. 

“Me too.”

“I want you back.” 

“I know. I am back.” She moves across the tent and tugs the tent flap from his hand so it drops them back into darkness. Her arms make their way around his neck and she presses her forehead against his. “But only here.”

***

“You’ve been unusually quiet today, Alistair,” Wynne finally broke the awkward silence of their travelling when they were mounting the hill just before Lake Calenhad. That morning, he had woken and dressed quite normally with no further signs of any kind of mental breakdown. Quietly, he helped to strip the camp, making polite conversation when prompted, even smiled when Wynne laughed at his rumpled shirt. But these moments of levity were brief and only thinly veiled as obligatory. Otherwise, he had been sullen and distanced all day. 

“Hm? Yes, sorry about that,” he answers when he feels her eyes upon him. “I suppose I’m just...well, thinking.” 

“Oh? What would Morrigan say?” But the favorite jab did not earn the desired response from him this time. He gives her a weak smile, but then breaks her gaze to fidget with the straps on his pack. 

A few awkward moments later, they crest the hill and the full view of Kinloch Hold looms eerily over the lake. They cannot help but stop and peer at the distant structure. For Wynne, this was once a welcomed sight, the view of home after a long journey, but after what happened there... it will always be a place associated with corpses and cancerous tumors. The few guards that have accompanied them continue down to the docks to gain passage across the lake leaving the two of them in reverie together.

“She was in my dream again last night.” Wynne could scarcely hear this admission, but she dared not move lest he retreat inside again. 

“Oh?” she tries to sound innocuous to downplay her worried tone.

“What if....what if...it really is her?” His chin turns slowly toward her as the words push through his lips.

She has thought about this. Quite a bit in fact. But “unlikely” would even be too optimistic in her mind. “Alistair, I don’t think...”

“Like Niall. Remember Niall?”

“Of course I do, it’s just that...”

“She talked to Niall in the Fade. He helped her. He knew the Litany of Adralla was still on his body. He was real.”

“He was newly gone, Alistair. The demon still sapping his energy while we were trapped. His spirit could still have been passing to the Maker, but...”

“What if he didn’t go? He was lost. Wouldn't his spirit still be there?”

“Again, I don’t think...”

“He would be real wouldn't he?” he raises his voice and turns to face Wynne. “He would still be him!” He grabs her shoulders, but his desperate look makes her pull back from his grasp and step away.

“No, Alistair. He would not be real. And you're still dreaming of a demon!” She meets his gaze carefully, holding him firmly there with her eyes. His desperation slowly starts to crumble as her words sink in.

“But I...I talked to her...” he shakes his head, trying to refuse her logic.

“You talked to a demon.”

“She was...it was so real though. Just like her,” he looks down at his hands and imagines her face cupped within, looking up at him with that familiar glint in her eyes. “So perfectly like her...”

“Demons are very good at their job.” She rests a hand on his shoulder and pushes him gently to begin the descent to the docks. He nods grimly and lets her guide him. “This ritual cannot happen soon enough.”


	5. Mourning and an Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final epic installment! Alistair confronts the spirit in the Fade, gets his answers, and makes a choice.

"This again?" Alistair exclaims aloud as darkspawn ooze through the gates of Denerim. He is already drawing heavy, ragged breaths. His sword hand already slippery with blood, his boots slosh on soil made mud by the extinguished bodies of soldiers, civilians, and hurlocks. He squints blood out of his eye and during a lull in the wave, makes a quick assessment of his surroundings. Piles of devilish, twisted bodies lie only a few feet away, but he finds himself alone to defend the gates against the next attack. He can already hear their maniacal grunts building force beyond the shoddy barricade. Oghren's gaping mouth hangs open amid a pile of shredded shrieks and Leliana's shattered bow is in the limp grasp of a genlock, but these sights do not phase him. No, just a few weeks ago, this scene would have made him sink to his knees in resignation, but now, he can see keenly that this is the Fade and these images merely an imperfect replica of his real memories. He raises his chin to the sky and finds the tell tale sign of a green hazy sun diffusing fake sunlight upon him. 

He throws down his sword and shield onto the bloody battlefield before him. "I'm done!" He screams above the mounting grunts over the wall, "I'm not going to do this again!" 

And they go silent. 

As though they've heard him. 

Actually listened to his command. 

It's like the entire battle has just evaporated into the quiet of Denerim before dawn.

And perhaps this silence makes the explosion from atop Fort Drakon all the more concussive. The flash of light brings his forearm to cover his eyes, but the wave of energy a moment later sends him toppling to the bloodied ground. "No!" He grunts as he tries to push himself back off the slippery ground. "No! It's over!" But his handhold gives way and he slides back down into the muck. He finds himself just inches from a severed hand wearing Dalish gloves and all notion of control leeches away into the unforgiving green sun.

It's done. 

She's done it. 

She went without him. 

Alone. 

He's alone. 

His fault. 

He knows it. 

She did this because of him.

The realization and guilt swirls around him making his vision spin. Losing the will to rise, he insteD lets his armor pull him down into the red mud at the Denerim gates. He looks up to the blurry sun above him, and for a moment, he thinks it looks remarkably like a jade eye staring down at him in disappointment.

He blearily opens his eyes to an immense dragon, all red scales and jutting bones like thorny spikes, lying limp upon the ground. He immediately recognizes the beast as the Archdemon that has been plaguing his dreams since the Joining, but he cannot hear its screeching call in his mind. He knows it must be dead, then remembers the explosion with a start. His body screams at him, but he pushes himself off the stone of the tower and hastily scans the never ending slew of bodies littering the area. 

He knows what he's looking for. 

Red hair. 

Honey robes. 

Maybe the crackle of blue magic. 

But no, before he can hope, the crumbled figure he’s looking for is pointed out by a carrion crow already investigating the wreckage.

Commanding his broken body to action, he finds himself at her side as the black bird caws from a few feet away. It is not deterred though. There is a bountiful feast atop this tower today.

Her body is contorted at all the wrong angles, so he untwists it to check for any sign of life. Her robes are sloshed in a black and red cacophony of blood and bile. A staggering clump of hair missing from her scalp. Face and hands scathed and raw and still oozing. He rolls her limp body up onto his knees. Cups one hand in his, holds it close to his chest. Her head lolls back grotesquely, so he supports it more comfortably in his lap. There is no fooling himself now. Not with this shattered and hollow husk before him.

His first choking sob breaks the eerie silence and echoes off the stone. It’s loud enough that the entire city, maybe even the entire country, could surely hear it. Were he not utterly alone. And that acknowledgment releases the floodgate of wailing. The echoes mingle to form a sorrowful orchestra of his grief. 

Of her passing. 

Sacrifice.

Anguish.

He vents his rage and agony to the hazy sky above until his voice is reduced to rubble and the blood is washed from his face. He looks again at her crumpled remains and gently lowers her head to the ground. Smoothing what is left of her hair from her face then resting her arms softly over her stomach, he lowers himself to the stone beside her. 

“I’ll just lie here a bit. With you.” He pushes himself close to her body and drapes an arm over her. He studies her mangled features for as long as he can stand it. He wants to memorize this moment. To burn it into his memory. So that he will never forget. This moment. This feeling of hopelessness. Of defeat. 

Then, he closes his eyes and lets the wind and smoke pass over him like a ghost while he tries to bring up her face from before. When color filled her cheeks as they trepidatiously stole glances at each other from across the campfire. When her hand squeezed his outside Goldanna’s shack. When she determinedly set her jaw as they left Redcliff to chase a legend. 

He thought his tears were spent, but one releases and trickles over the bridge of his nose. And he is so caught in his reverie that when a familiar thumb rubs away the wet trail, he takes the hand in his, absent mindedly presses it to his lips and says, “thank you, my dear.”

It takes him a moment to realize that the body pressing back against his was limp and lifeless just seconds before, but when he does, he sucks in a sharp breath of air. Holds it. Listens and feels. Could it....no...but could it be? The hand cupped in his loosens itself and moves to his face. The fingers rest behind his ear and the thumb casually strokes his cheek.

I must be mad. Yes. That’s it. Utterly mad. 

But he wills his eyes open. And there are the jade eyes smiling at him. Her jade eyes.

When his eyes meet hers, she smiles brightly at him as though she had not just died and he had not just mourned her.

“I did this for you.”

“What? This is crazy. You were....dead!”

She sighs. “Alistair, we’ve been through this.” She cocks her head and pokes him with one finger. “Or have you forgotten that this is the Fade?”

In fact he had. But now, like the times before, the haziness comes into focus and the incongruities become apparent. They are so obvious when he finally sees.

“Alistair,” she uses her poking finger to direct his face back to meet her eyes, “do you understand?” He nods numbly, but she sees through his facade. 

“There was no place for me anymore. You were to be King. The Circle broken. The Wardens decimated. It had to be me.” He starts to interrupt her, to argue her logic, but she silences him with a finger upon his lips. “ And I knew you would not agree. But....well, I made my choice...” Her eyes release him as they trail down his chest. He can barely make out her words: “I’m sorry.”

And that was that. A year of desperate yearning for an answer, and here it is. A woman unbroken by darkspawn taint. Untrodden by politics and strife. Undeterred from the insurmountable. But before him, she is trembling and shrinking. And he has no words to reassure her. Instead, he takes his turn in fretting over her streaky cheeks. Her eyes are hesitant to meet his, so he joins their lips instead. 

When they touch, her sobs release, but he kisses them away. Holding her face between both hands, he gives each tear the attention they deserve until they dissipate, then he wraps his arms fully around her and pulls her close. He rests his chin atop her head and runs his fingers through her hair until her breathing steadies. They enjoy a few moments of quiet contentment that way until she breaks the stillness.

“Now what?”

Alistair inhales and exhales a few times. He’s wanted this so desperately for so long, but never thought to plan beyond this moment. But one worry has not escaped him yet.

“Are you a spirit? A demon?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s not encouraging...”

“I don’t think so anyway. I have no intention or capability that i know of to leave the Fade, but I don’t know why I’m still here either. Maybe the Maker doesn’t want mages by his side?”

“You guided us through the Gauntlet and took a pinch of the Sacred Ashes. If He didn’t want you I think that would have been a more appropriate time to zap you.” He thought that might earn him a chuckle or maybe a smile, but her demeanor didn’t shift in the least.

“I've asked museslf this same question so many times. All I can reckon is that I have all these memories and sensations of being alive. Of being me...I think. But doesn’t that make me the same person you knew before? It’s not my body that made me, but my memories, my emotions, my....” her voice trails off and she pulls away from his chest. He looks down to see her eyes pleading with him. 

“So what now?”

“The only answer I have. Dream with me.”

“Alistair?” he hears Wynne’s voice beckoning to him from the distance and just like that, the scene around them starts to eddy and swirl away. He tries to pull her close to keep her from escaping his grasp, but her body becomes incorporeal as his own realm pulls him back. She smiles and waves shyly as he feels himself slipping away. 

“Alistair, is it over?”

“Rouse yourself, young man,” he hears Irving’s gravely voice next to Wynne’s. 

When things come into focus, he finds himself back in the Harrowing chamber of the Circle Tower surrounded by a small group of Senior enchanters. All eyes are upon him as he is helped to standing by Wynne and Irving. He is unsteady on his feet, so one of the younger mages scoots a small chair over from the corner and he gratefully sinks into it.

To their credit, they try to give him some time and space to reorient himself, but their eagerness for his news makes them jump at every small movement he makes. 

“Did you meet it? Did you face the demon?” Wynne finally cracks and places a hand on his shoulder. She kneels next to him and tries to meet his gaze.

“I did.” 

The room takes in a collective breath.

“And?” 

“It is slain.” 

A collective exhale echoes off the stone walls. The atmosphere shifts suddenly as mages congratulate each other and him. Slap him on the back. Shake his hand.

“Your courage and conviction are remarkable, your Highness,” Irving holds out a hand and Alistair takes it.

“I would, er...appreciate your continued discretion in this matter,” he meets the First Enchanter’s eyes who hesitates only a moment before nodding.

“What a relief!” Wynne stands next to him. “Was it terrible? What tricks did the demon try to tempt you with? Did you have to battle it?”

“Wynne, I uh...” His head is still swimmy, but her eyes glisten in anticipation.

“I do believe the young man is drained from the efforts.”

“Oh, you’re right Irving. As usual. My eagerness got the better of me.”

“Yes,” Alistair pipes in. “I am feeling a bit woozy. If you’ll excuse me, perhaps some sleep would do me some good.”

As he left the chamber, he felt a cool wind across the nape of his neck like a caress from beyond the veil.


End file.
